


Bleeding Out

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: M/M, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 23:24:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4806140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Grantaire has not volunteered to watch over the prisoner, but in escaping the barricade and coming inside, he has found himself with the task. He could not be out there with <i>him</i>, who knows Grantaire better than anyone, but who does not see him now.'</p><p>In which Grantaire discovers he is not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleeding Out

**Author's Note:**

> It has been too many years since I read The Brick, so this is pretty much a musical based story. Just FYI.

The man is silent, and he has not moved since Joly forced him to his knees and Courfeyrac tightened the noose around his neck. His legs must be aching by now, his back bent, but all he does is stare at his bound hands, clasped together like a monk at his prayers.

His stillness unnerves Grantaire, who is alone in the tavern with him. Grantaire cannot remember a time when he was ever still for so long – his mother used to say he was born fidgeting and hadn’t ever stopped since. He is aware of his own foot tapping to a beat only he can hear, aware of his fingernails rubbing gently against his thumb, aware of the wine bottle paper wrappings he has shredded into tiny pieces on the table in front of him. He imagines his mother’s smile, exasperated, and then forces it from his mind. If he thinks of her now, he will lose what little grip he has on his courage.

Grantaire has not volunteered to watch over the prisoner, but in escaping the barricade and coming inside, he has found himself with the task. He could not be outside a moment longer, knowing that the falling dusk could be the last he ever sees. He could not be there with his friends, who speak bravely to one another, but who tremble at every sound from the shadows. He could not be out there with _him_ , who knows Grantaire better than anyone, but who does not see him now. On this night, Grantaire feels a noose around his neck just as real as their guest’s must feel to him.

A shriek from one of the women outside cuts through the silence and Grantaire sits up, heart pounding. There is an exchange of voices and then quiet falls again, and he sinks back into his chair. He glances at the man and sees that the noise has finally roused him. He has jerked to attention, head up and listening. Grantaire takes the chance to examine him; anything, anything, to distract himself.

The inspector does not look well, his head still bleeding from the blow Enjolras gave him. The blood is bright against his swarthy skin, running into his eye and down his face. With his complexion, strong nose and thick hair, pulled into a ribbon at the back of his neck, he could almost belong to the gypsies who camp every winter outside of the city walls. Grantaire has never heard of a gypsy policeman, but he supposes such a thing is not impossible. No wonder the man is an inspector; starting from a place worse than the bottom of the pile, one would need to have ambition that Grantaire can only imagine.

He is dressed simply, in his disguise that was not enough to save him, and he does not wear the clothes comfortably. They do not fit him properly, like he has borrowed them from some other man. What kind of man does not have clothes of his own?

_One who wants to carve his image as anything but a simple man._

Grantaire realises too late that the inspector is watching him too, the eye not full of blood turned on him, and unflinching when Grantaire’s own gaze finally meets it. The eye is dark, almost black in the candlelight, and it is all Grantaire can do not to look away first. He wonders what the inspector sees when he looks at him, and then decides he would rather not know. A man who is barely a man, onto his third bottle of wine, dishevelled, sweating and shaking with nerves. A pathetic excuse for manhood. Not even brave enough to be out on the barricade on the last night of his life.

A line of sweat runs down the inspector’s forehead, and into his good eye, and he breaks first, screwing up his face and collapses forwards once more, to the very limits of what the noose will allow. Something about the line of his broad shoulders, slumped in defeat, moves something in Grantaire’s breast and he finds himself getting to his feet and going to the man.

“Inspector,” he says. There is no reaction.

“Javert,” he says instead, trying the taste of the man’s name for the first time. Slowly, the great head lifts and the eye is forced open. The gaze is not so penetrating now. The man just looks tired, his age for the first time easy to find on his face. Grantaire takes his handkerchief from his pocket and spits on it.  
Folding it roughly and kneeling down before the inspector, he wipes gently at the eye stuck fast with blood. Javert is tense beneath his hands, the other eye closed now as though it makes the touch easier to bear. When he is finished, Grantaire soaks the handkerchief in wine from the bottle held tightly in his other hand and applies it to the bleeding wound on the man’s head. The only sign Javert gives that he feels a thing is a small twinge of the brow as the alcohol soaks into the open wound.

“Only for a moment,” Grantaire murmurs, “Until the bleeding ceases.”

There is a sound behind him, the whisper of feet, and he turns to see Enjolras watching him. He knows that look. He is to be scolded, like a wayward child. He turns back to his charge, who has opened his eyes and looks at Enjolras blearily.

“What are you doing, Grantaire?”

“He was bleeding. I am stopping it.”

“He is only our prisoner.”

There it is. The Voice.

“He is.”

“He would not do the same for you.”

“Is that not our purpose? To be better than the people who govern us now?”

Javert’s eyes flicker away from Enjolras and onto Grantaire’s face, more alert and harder to read. Grantaire takes the handkerchief away and inspects the wound carefully. When he feels Enjolras’ hand on his shoulder, his eyes close, just for a moment. It is too much. He cannot bear it.

“You are better than all of us, Grantaire. If only you cared more for the cause we have.”

Grantaire can feel his lip shake as Enjolras leaves them once more and he bites it fiercely. He cannot love their cause more than he does. He loves something else far too much.

Javert is staring at him again, and Grantaire speaks almost against his own will.

“Enjolras has never hated another human being in his whole life. He does not even hate you, inspector. He loses himself sometimes, in what he believes. But he does not hate.”

Those eyes are still on him but now there is something else there, a seed of recognition that seems very dangerous for a man of the law to have. For a second, Javert looks as though he may say something. Then he tightens his lips once more and looks away.

Grantaire stumbles away, draining the last of the wine and searching for another bottle. He finds it behind the counter and pulls at the seal with his teeth. He could go outside now, force himself into the arms of his friends. Javert is going nowhere, needs no guard to watch over him. Grantaire tells himself this and sits anyway. His treacherous thoughts have no place on that barricade. He does not deserve the comfort of his friends. He does not deserve to be anywhere near Enjolras.

They lapse once more into silence, turned away from one another, and Grantaire holds the bottle tightly to his chest. He is numb. He could sleep now, just lay his head down and never wake up. It would be easier than facing what tomorrow will bring. It would be easier than pretending any longer.

Perhaps he does sleep for a while, curled in on himself, because the next thing he knows, Enjolras, Jolie and Combeferre come into the tavern, followed by an older man in an army uniform. Grantaire stumbles to his feet, knocking the bottle to the floor. The wine spills over the floor, like a creeping bloodstain, and Grantaire forces back the sickness that rises in his throat. It is an omen. The man in the uniform holds a gun, his knuckles white around the barrel.

Grantaire does not hear them speak. The roar in his ears deafens him, and he cannot look away from Javert. The flash of fear on the inspector’s face is the only real feeling that Grantaire has seen from him. Who is this man, who has come from nowhere to deal out the punishment that none of them have the stomach for? A dark angel, feared by even the bravest of men. 

He tries to tell Enjolras, to stop the angel taking Javert, but it is too late. The soldier has Javert’s ropes in his hand, leading him out of the tavern, through the back door. The inspector hangs his head and follows, a lamb in wolf’s clothing.

“Is this what we do?” Grantaire chokes, “Execute those we already have at our mercy?”

“It has to be done,” Enjolras murmurs, his hand on Grantaire’s arm, burning, burning him, “Please do not look at me so. Wars have casualties, Grantaire. This is a war.”

“You do not believe that,” Grantaire shakes him off, “I can see it on your face. You do not believe the words you say!”

“You are drunk,” Enjolras growls, “You do not understand.”

And he is gone, before Grantaire can scream, scream that he has always understood, better than half the people outside on that barricade. He has always known it would come to this. He has always known he would die for Enjolras. He has always known.

Stumbling, he follows the footsteps of the inspector and the man in the uniform. If he can save a life tonight, if he can stop it, perhaps he can die with that thought rather than one of his own cowardice, the words he never said.

The alley is dark, bathed only in the light of a weak moon that casts long shadows between the buildings and makes it simple to hide. They are huddled at the end of the alley, the man in the uniform illuminated for Grantaire to see. He is holding a knife, and Javert is speaking, venom in his voice.

“How right you should kill with a knife.”

The blade flashes and Grantaire almost cries out, until Javert lifts his hands and steps into the light. The man has cut the ropes that bound him.

Their voices lower and Grantaire cannot hear the words. He sees it on Javert’s face though, a face he has learned these past hours. The fear is gone and he is angry, angry and so, so sad.

 _He wants to die,_ Grantaire thinks. _He was ready for it._

Javert turns, limps towards the end of the alley, then turns back. His hands twitch, half raised towards the other man, and Grantaire gasps because he sees a desperation that he recognises only too well. Then Javert chokes out a groan and he is gone, melting into the shadows. The man in the uniform clenches his fists, resting them against his forehead. Then, slowly, he reaches for the abandoned gun and shoots it into the air.

Grantaire hurries into the tavern, just ahead of the returning man. He falls into his chair as the old man enters slowly, Enjolras peering in the door.

“It is done,” the man says, “He is gone.”

Enjolras nods and he does not look at Grantaire as he returns to the barricade. Grantaire watches the man though, through half closed eyes. He is shaking, and his eyes shine liquid bright. Neither of them speak, until Grantaire feels a hand on his shoulder. It is the old man, and his face is so kind that Grantaire feels the tears pool in his eyes.

“You should not be alone,” the man says, “You should not be without him tonight.”

Grantaire cannot stop it. The sob.

“How-”

“I know.”

“You let him go.”

A beat of silence.

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Why are _you_ here, son? You have no stomach for violence.”

Grantaire understands. The secrets they hold close to their chests are laid bare here, nothing to hide.

“Come,” the man says softly, pulling Grantaire to his feet, “He is waiting for you. If he knows it or not, he needs you at his side tonight.”

So Grantaire follows him, bravely, boldly, out to his friends and his Enjolras, who greets him with a hand resting on the back of his neck, and when Grantaire takes a seat beside him, daring to lean into Enjolras’ shoulder, the old man nods and smiles sadly.

Grantaire has always knows he will die for Enjolras. At least he will die by his side, as well. Not all people are lucky enough to say such a thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, Vana!


End file.
